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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469651">Soul searching</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oikawashoyo/pseuds/oikawashoyo'>oikawashoyo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>For Skai, Gender Identity, Getting Together, Introspection, Iwaizumi Hajime is a Good Significant Other, M/M, Nonbinary Oikawa Tooru, Sexuality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:16:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469651</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oikawashoyo/pseuds/oikawashoyo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>It’s never been exactly about what he wanted. In Japan, he’s only ever been Oikawa. Aoba Johsai’s captain and star setter, son of Oikawa Ayame, brother of Oikawa Moriko. It is a mold he’s stepped into in middle school; one that grew more constricting the older he became.</p>
  <p>Perhaps, this is why it was so striking to set foot on new soil with nothing weighing him down.<br/></p>
</blockquote>Or, it takes Oikawa approximately a year in Argentina to figure out that he’s free to explore who he truly is.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>kagsivity's fic archive</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Soul searching</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time Oikawa kisses a boy is in a low-lit bar in Argentina.</p><p>His lips taste like the margarita they’ve had just before, sour and smokey with the sharp bite of salt at his tongue. It’s not a perfect kiss by any means, but it’s monumental in a way Oikawa can’t describe. Perhaps, it is the way the stubble brushes his cheek, or the short hair beneath his fingertips. The low Spanish music, reggaeton beat mirrored in the slight movements of his hips, reaches his ears as his lips open once more. It is strange and unknown but familiar all at once and Oikawa can’t help the shiver that runs down his back. It electrifies his spine before settling exactly where a hand digs into the small of his back.</p><p>Perhaps, it’s all this; the atmosphere, the slide of lips, the warm hand on his thigh. But maybe it’s simpler, if broken down to its basest components, bit by bit until Oikawa can finally see the edge he’s just crossed without falling.</p><p>It’s a boy.</p><p>Santiago, to be precise. Not even someone with whom he’s arrived, merely a boy with a sweet grin who bought him a drink just hours ago. Oikawa accepted it, of course. There’s something breathtaking about it — a man who looks at him and wants and even then is not deterred to make that known, despite the myriads of people able to observe their interaction. After that, it’s an <em>hola, precioso</em>; it’s a coy gaze, a flutter of lashes and a sigh accompanied by a whispered <em>quiero besarte</em>.</p><p>I’ve always known, Oikawa would like to say with his usual flippancy. He’s always tackled hardships with a particular grandeur, a bullheadedness only mirrored by the friend who’s been by his side ever since he was born. Except for this.</p><p>Simmering, he would say now, like a low heat on a constantly burning stove. It was a twitch every now and then, a low sigh and a longing. It was a fire that has been drowned out by the stifling sound of his own expectations. After all, he didn’t need to be kissing boys when he was already kissing girls.</p><p>Except, he wants to. He wants to kiss <em>everybody</em>.</p><p>So now, the slow beat melts into his limbs as the taste of citrus grows stronger on his tongue. The hand on his thigh grows heavier, thumb stroking in lazy circles that make his breath catch in his throat. It’s not different at all, Oikawa thinks and tilts his head. It is, but it isn’t.</p><p>A week later, he kisses a girl at a festival in Rio. She’s beautiful of course, all curves and feisty quips, a big grin as she leads him up to her hotel room and a bigger grin on his as his fingers sink into the thighs around his waist, skin feeling soft and smooth. And, of course, Oikawa has never been one for patience, so it takes him about a month after that until he’s leading the first boy up to his apartment, grinning as strong fingers tug on his hair.</p><p>“Ah, mierda,” Mateo says, watching Oikawa smile in the direction of the stands after one of their practice matches, “he’s finally realised he’s not only handsome but also <em>pretty</em>.”</p><p>“He’s going to be unbearable about that,” Javier mutters. His voice tilts into the usual teasing lilt reserved only for Oikawa, but his proud little smile belies the truth.</p><p>“He’s already unbearable.”</p><p>“Hey! I heard that; Soy una delicia!”</p><p>He doesn’t tell anybody. Well, actually he does tell everybody, except for the person who truly matters. Every call introduces some bizarre sense of hesitation into his body, turning already formed words back into thoughts that settle like stones over his chest. There’s no reason to be afraid, Oikawa knows. California alone has given Iwaizumi probably more exposure to queer culture than Oikawa himself has had at this point. And still.</p><p>His friends have always been vocal about his reputation as a serial dater. What would they think <em>now</em>?</p><p>Turns out, Hanamaki’s and Matsukawa’s response is a resounding “Thank <em>fuck</em> you’re not straight.”</p><p>“I— What?” Oikawa’s mug almost falls out of his hand as one leg slides from beneath the other in shock. His tea spoon is less lucky than that, clattering to the ground loudly.</p><p>“It would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” Matsukawa says, waving around his chopsticks as he talks, “I mean, not to stroke your ego, or anything, but I’d be sad for the ones you’re not attracted to.”</p><p>“He’s still an asshole, Issei, so I don’t think we have to be concerned at all.”</p><p>Oikawa huffs, raising his pointer finger in a flamboyant silencing gesture. “But I’m a pretty asshole.”</p><p>“A pretty queer asshole, you mean.”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>They continue bickering, jokes flying just as in old times. Sitting back, Oikawa inhales. Air floods his lungs after what felt like hours spent breathless, shakingly leaving as he exhales again. He can feel his limbs shaking, nervous energy mingling with the unending happiness growing within his chest. Both Hanamaki and Matsukawa fall silent, soft smiles on their faces, as they watch him break out into laughter.</p><p>At first, that’s it.</p><p>And then, it’s not.</p><p>Oikawa has never been one to stand still, after all; always thinking, jumping, moving higher and higher until he reaches a wall he can break with sheer willpower alone. For him, happiness has never been the goal. He has always wanted to be content.</p><p>So, he sits on the bright red couch in the living room of his too-small apartment. The evening breeze brushes his hair as it streams in through the open balcony door, accompanied by the mouthwatering smell of his neighbour’s asado. The slight sizzling is still audible, despite the raucous sound of a bustling city beyond the walls of his apartment. His grip on the flowery mate mug he bought just a few days ago is strong in an attempt to warm his freezing fingers.</p><p>He can see his reflection in the balcony door. It’s distorted, but maybe that makes sense. The phone lies abandoned within the folds of his couch, thrown there the moment his mother had hung up with a decisive click. In any other situation, her words would have been inconsequential — approving, really, and kind.</p><p>“I’m so proud of the man you’ve become,” she said and Oikawa knows he should’ve been happy about it, but something about it made his hands twitch. They still do, right now, as his eyes remain glued to his reflection. It’s not wrong, but it’s also not right.</p><p>His answer comes in the form of CA San Juan’s new libero, a charming athlete from Colombia whom he first meets outside of their usual training hall — wearing bright red lipstick.</p><p>“Alex, right?” Oikawa says, eyeing the other’s lips with what might be a little too much enthusiasm, “that’s a nice colour.”</p><p>“Gracias!” Alex smacks his lips and then grins up at him. “That’s a nice face.”</p><p>Oikawa’s lips quirk up, hands settling on his hips as he laughs. “I know,” he says, “but I’m glad you noticed.”</p><p>They chat the entire way into the dressing room, a mix of English and Spanish that has become familiar during the year Oikawa has spent in Argentina. It doesn’t take long for the others to trinkle in and soon enough, Oikawa feels the heavy weight of an arm thrown around his shoulder.</p><p>“Toto,” Javier bellows, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek, “I see you two have already met. Alex is quite the charmer, aren’t they?”</p><p>Oikawa blinks, once, twice. It takes him approximately five seconds to scan his memories for all the English grammar lessons he’s been cramming and revising ever since high school. When those refuse to give him the answer he seeks, he swallows down his embarrassment and turns back to Javier with widened eyes. “They?”</p><p>In the corner of his eye, he can see Alex fidget. The silence only takes a few seconds, Javier sending an encouraging glance to their libero. “Yeah,” Alex says, finally, “I go by they.”</p><p>Comprehension comes slowly, mostly due to the way his cogs start turning, thoughts spiralling into another direction immediately. Just as Alex’s smile fades, Oikawa’s grows. “You can do that?”</p><p>Another pause, only a moment, before understanding dawns in Alex’s eyes. “Absolutely, you can.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>It doesn’t take long to start the endless back and forth, a hurricane of thoughts that never quite lands in the right spot. Still, Oikawa thinks as he brings the ball up in a perfect set only minutes later, this is progress. That’s what he’s always done — gather bits of knowledge until he could form a picture, adapt his play to allow his teammates to be at their best. Only now, the toss must reach himself.</p><p>And it does, eventually.</p><p>(“Can it be more than one?” He asks one day whilst lying in the grass of parque de mayo. A slight buzz reaches his ears, bumblebees flying by next to his head. The harsh sunlight skirts around him just so, instead using all its might to shine directly into Alex’s face.</p><p>“Sure,” Alex says, squinting in his direction, “it can be whatever you want.”</p><p>“Huh.”)</p><p>It’s never been exactly about what he wanted, Oikawa realises as he watches the cars pass by from his balcony. The fairy lights he bought just yesterday bathe the air in comforting amber, the colour somehow reminding him of his other home, halfway across the world. He didn’t make it to Obon this year, or the last, but it’s not regret that culminates in his chest.</p><p>In Japan, he’s only ever been Oikawa. Aoba Johsai’s captain and star setter, son of Oikawa Ayame, brother of Oikawa Moriko. It is a mold he’s stepped into in middle school; one that grew more constricting the older he became. His fingers wrap around the mug on the table, bringing it up to his lips in a slow, contemplative motion. The taste of lemon gathers on his tongue and warms his throat as he drinks. He had driven himself into a corner, all those years ago; allowed the expectations of others to settle on his shoulders and dictate the way he thought and behaved.</p><p>Perhaps, this is why it was so striking to set foot on new soil with nothing weighing him down.</p><p>The breeze is warm as it hits his face, lips opening to suck it in. There’s never been an Oikawa in San Juan, he realises. The one who arrived in an airport in Mendoza, eyes wide and tongue tied, was a person with no expectation held against them. Nameless, really, until he introduced himself as Tooru without a second thought. It’s Toto for his team mates, mijo for his coach, tío for little Pedro across the street. Even for Hajime, turning to his roommate with an annoyed brow before bellowing a decisive “Turn it down, I’m talking to Tooru.”</p><p>He sets the mug back onto the table.</p><p>Why should he hold on to old expectations, an image of himself that no longer fits, when ever since he’s set foot in Argentina, he’s been more Tooru than Oikawa? Inhaling, he fills his lungs with fresh air, steady and deep, until he lets it go. The amber of the fairy lights settles over his fingers, new and yet familiar.</p><p>If he had a lantern now, Tooru thinks, he’d let it fly to bid himself farewell.</p><p>“Oh, Mateo,” they say a few days later, facing their team during practice. It's taken them a bit of thought, some shaking moments of uncertainty, before realising that it really doesn't make much of a difference. They've never been anyone else to them, really. “Of course the great Tooru Oikawa wouldn't be held down by something as inconsequential as gender.”</p><p>“Oh, there they go,” Mateo groans light heartedly, swatting Tooru's hands away from his face.</p><p>“Our little Toto,” Javier says. His finger moves up to wipe a nonexistent tear off his face. “finally all grown up.”</p><p>“Don't worry, he's still a little menace,” Alex laughs, ruffling Tooru's hair. “That okay?”</p><p>The grin on Tooru's face comes unbidden, almost involuntary as their chest fills and fills and overflows. “Si, he and they; Use whichever,” they say; lets the ball fly high over their head in a perfect arch, a set to commence a future.</p><p>There remains one problem.</p><p>“You haven’t told him yet?” Placing his tea cup on the table before him, Hanamaki raises his hands in clear disbelief. It’s understandable, given the fact that the ‘him’ in question is no other but Iwaizumi Hajime. Tooru doesn’t know why the words stay stuck in their throat every time, but there’s something fundamentally fearsome about discussing themselves with a boy who’s meant to know them inside and out in the first place.</p><p>Maybe it’s the power Hajime has, strong enough to break them.</p><p>In the end, Tooru simply gets sick of acting like someone they’re not. Maybe it’s not the best possible way to divulge that particular revelation but Tooru has never exactly considered themselves a subtle person. Especially now after they’ve finally settled into their own skin.</p><p>So, it goes like this: On a sun-splattered August day, warmth seeping into bones and sweat dripping off skin, Tooru steps out of an airplane in California. There’s something about it; long legs on display as they cross the airport, back broad underneath their leather jacket. All it takes is a miniscule change of angle, one doubletake, and knowing that, Tooru finds themselves smiling the whole way to Irvine.</p><p>Even as they knock on Hajime’s dorm room, the smile doesn’t dissipate. If anything, it grows larger the moment his roommate opens the door and looks at them thrice in a span of two seconds.</p><p>“Uh,” Kevin says and stumbles over his next words as his eyes remain glued to Tooru’s arms, “Hey?”</p><p>“I can’t believe you don’t recognize me,” Tooru sighs dramatically, “I thought I made a bigger impression.”</p><p>At their voice, Kevin’s eyes snap up, cataloguing the rest of Tooru’s face with a squint until his eyes widen abruptly. “Oh shit,” he says, “you’re Tooru. Fuck, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Waving him off, Tooru’s pout transforms into a particularly charming grin. “Can I come in?”</p><p>It takes Kevin a moment to respond and all Tooru can do is snicker at the almost dreamy look on his face. After another second, he shakes it off, stumbling back with rosy cheeks. “Fuck, yeah, sure.” Turning, he raises his voice. “Haj,” he yells, glancing back at Tooru between words, “your bo— uhm, your Tooru is here!”</p><p>The reply comes almost immediately, muffled but alert. The sound of pens clattering to the ground reaches their ears before a door slams open. “<em>My Tooru</em>?”</p><p>“Iwa-chan!”</p><p>The words seem to spur him on and soon enough, Hajime is standing in the hallway, looking disbelievingly at the door. “What the fuck?”</p><p>“Is that how you greet your best friend, Iwa-chan?” Tooru exclaims, faking an affronted gasp, “I come all the way over here from Argentina and this is what I get?”</p><p>“What the fuck.”</p><p>The next thing they know, Hajime’s arms are wrapped around them, face pushing into their shoulder. The hands at their back are warm, comforting; fingers pressing against their spine. A mixture of pine and musk floods their senses as they press their cheek against Hajime’s head, hair brushing against their skin. It’s softer than it used to be, textured still, the wax molding it upwards. Hajime hums, slight vibrations sinking into their chest. It feels like home.</p><p>Arms squeeze around their waist, a sigh pressed against their throat, before Hajime pulls back and drags them back to his room. Turning slightly, Tooru sends a big wave over their shoulder to a Kevin whose eyes are definitely glued to their lower back.</p><p>They find themselves in a room that is solely Hajime’s, filled to the brim with the essence of their best friend. Even then, something else catches their attention first. The air tastes like sweat, stale and heavy in a way that makes their tongue curl. Wrinkling their nose, Tooru smacks their lips loudly. “Iwa-chan,” they say, “have you never opened your window ever since moving here?”</p><p>Hajime grimaces, already on his way to let in some fresh air. “Shut up,” he groans, “I have a bio exam coming up.”</p><p>“And you thought suffocating was your best bet?”</p><p>“Very funny.”</p><p>Fresh air floods the room, winding around Tooru’s hair and raising goosebumps on their skin. It’s here that it hits them, all at once like the breeze hitting their face. It’s the first time they’re with Hajime whilst being fully themselves. A premiere that surprisingly doesn’t fill them with anxiety, but a quiet sense of peace, breath coming easier than ever before.</p><p>“Tooru,” Hajime says, interrupting their musing. He’s looking at Tooru as if he’s never seen them before, eyes as contemplative as they’ve never been, “you look good, happy.”</p><p>Tooru grins, wide enough to make their cheeks pull tight. “That’s because I’m visiting you, Iwa-chan, of course I’m happy!”</p><p>“No,” Hajime says, “It’s more than that. It’s like.. you’ve finally arrived where you always wanted to be.”</p><p>The words strike true. Tooru can feel the sweat gathering at their palms. Their heartbeat accelerates. “Yeah, about that,” he swallows, once, twice, throat feeling too dry to talk. They do anyway. “Do you remember Alex?”</p><p>“Your new libero? Sure.”</p><p>Tooru takes a deep breath, lets it settle within his chest. “I’m like them.”</p><p>Hajime doesn’t miss a beat. “Nonbinary? That’s cool” He says, “That makes sense. When did you realise?”</p><p>It takes Tooru an embarrassing amount of time to respond to that, the kind of flippancy Hajime isn’t exactly known for throwing them off. “A while back?”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>“Cool?” Tooru mimics, “That’s all you got to say?”</p><p>“Yeah?” Hajime shrugs, “What else am I supposed to say? It’s cool that you realised that about yourself and look happier now. What would you say if I told you I’m gay?”</p><p>Tooru stops. Taking a step closer, they grab Hajime by the shoulders, hands gripping urgently. “You’re gay?”</p><p>“Tooru,” Hajime says, hands wrapping around Tooru’s wrists — the calluses are rough against his skin. “Of course I’m gay. I’ve had a crush on our resident straight guy ever since I was fifteen years old.”</p><p>“Resident strai—,” Tooru trails off, eyes narrowing in thought. They’ve never noticed Hajime treating anyone with particular reverence. There have never been longing looks, or any pining exclamations of feelings. In fact, Tooru is sure that Hajime didn’t miss the fact that Seijoh has never had a single straight volleyball player in the history of its existence. They come to the only possible conclusion. “Do not tell me it’s Ushijima or Tobio.”</p><p>“What— No. Why the hell would you think that?”</p><p>“Who else could it be?” Tooru exclaims, feeling Hajime’s fingers dig deeper into his skin. His eyes furrow in obvious confusion. “I’ve never known a straight person in my life.”</p><p>“You’ve never known—,” Hajime stops, eyes widening. “Wait. You’re not straight.”</p><p>“Of course I’m not straight. Are you really that slow, Hajime?”</p><p>It appears that Hajime is, indeed, that slow. His eyes widen, mouth dropping open as he blinks. The fingers around Tooru’s wrists tighten, then loosen again. “Maybe we should sit down.”</p><p>They move to the bed in record speed, reminiscent of the way they used to lie next to each other their entire lives. Tooru’s hands brush against the sheets, more coarse than they’re used to. The cheap material chaves against their skin as they attempt to arrange their limbs onto Hajime’s too small bed. And yet, they’ve never felt more comfortable in their lives.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Hajime says, knee bumping against Tooru’s, “I didn’t mean to make this about me. What I meant to say is that I’m really glad you told me and I’m happy for you. I guess I fried my brain studying the past few days.”</p><p>Tooru waves him off. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”</p><p>Still apologetic, Hajime reaches out to lay a hand on Tooru’s thigh. “Isn’t it?”</p><p>“It’s just who I am.”</p><p>The hand on their thigh flexes, nails brushing against their skin. It’s a jolt, almost, and Tooru sits back up, turns and hovers their body over Hajime’s. “You had a crush on me.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Hajime groans, “I thought you forgot about that.”</p><p>“Nope,” Tooru laughs, sound almost echoing through the room. “You had a <em>crush</em> on me.”</p><p>“Yeah. I’ve had a crush on you forever. Just didn’t want to raise my hopes up.”</p><p>Still laughing, Tooru lets themselves fall forward, burying their face into Hajime’s chest. “That’s really cool.”</p><p>Arms wrap around them, warmth seeping into their bones where fingers brush their skin. Hajime shifts, legs tangling. The hair brushes against the smoothness of their own. Pine floods their senses. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Asshole,” Hajime says and laughs, bright and happy. His chest shakes beneath Tooru’s head. Silence falls, for only a moment. It’s comfortable, more comfortable than it’s ever been. Tooru realises just now what it feels like to be content.</p><p>“Which pronouns do you want me to use?” Hajime asks after a moment. His hand wanders into Tooru’s hair, softly playing with the strands.</p><p>“He or they are okay,” Tooru mumbles, humming when Hajime’s fingers brush against his ear.</p><p>“So, I can use ‘boyfriend’?”</p><p>“Yes,” Tooru says, trying to hide their smile in the fabric of Hajime’s shirt. “Boyfriend is great. Partner, too.”</p><p>“Well,” Hajime muses, “you’ll always be the partner I’m proud of, so that fits.”</p><p>The arms around them tighten when Tooru can do nothing but let the giggles flow out of their chest. It’s too much, all at once, elation settling within their body like a tidal wave. Then, the hands in their hair stop.</p><p>“What about stupid idiot?”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“Asshole is gender neutral too though.”</p><p>“I’m breaking up with you,” Tooru pouts, lifting their head when Hajime doesn’t stop laughing. When their eyes meet, they feel another jolt, like electricity hitting right at their spine, moving up until their fingers start shaking. “We’ll talk about this in a bit, okay? Right now, I’m just,” Tooru trails off, reaching up to grasp at Hajime’s hand and intertwine their fingers. “I’m just really happy.”</p><p>“Me too,” Hajime whispers, the sound of it so tender that Tooru closes their eyes. “I’m just.. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re finally who you’re meant to be.”</p><p>This time, nearly a year after Tooru first kissed a boy in a low-lit bar in Argentina, it’s all this; the atmosphere, the warm hands on their back, the intimacy of being truly yourself with the person who knows you better than the world itself. But maybe it’s simpler, the components coming together to form a picture, a portrait of the colours Tooru painted when they let a lamp fly one Saturday evening.</p><p>It’s them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A little Valentine's gift for my partner that I can boast, Skai - <a href="https://twitter.com/ACatNamedSkai">check out their beautiful art on twitter!</a></p><p>This Oikawa finding themselves in a new country without expectations and being able to explore things like sexuality and gender identity is very dear to me (and hopefully to some others too).</p><p>This is also a teeny tiny exercise in sense-focused writing for the people with aphantasia! Tell me if it worked!</p><p>If you want more of my writing, headcanons, and other creations, you can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/oikawashoyou">twitter as oikawashoyou!</a>, or if you want to support this tired person with her hundreds of wips, you can also <a href="https://ko-fi.com/oikawashoyou">buy me a coffee if you want.</a> &lt;3  </p><p>Comments are always welcome and appreciated. &lt;3 Thank you so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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